


Wingman

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotp, Gen, except when he isn't, sherlock is a surprisingly excellent wingman, whereby john probably should kill his flatmate but does not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John make a wager: Sherlock gets to play matchmaker for one evening, after which he is sworn never to meddle in John's love life again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wager

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jupitereyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupitereyed/gifts).



> This is a gift for jupitereyed. It's rather late and I intended it to be finished by now, but it seems it wants chapters, so chapters it is!
> 
> Since this is a silly little prompt fill, it has been neither beta-ed nor britpicked. Deal :P

“If you lean back about fifteen degrees you'll greatly improve the angle of penetra. . .” Sherlock did not get to finish his sentence, because John's eyes flew open the moment he started to speak, and once John started to act, Sherlock had only 1.5 seconds to choke out the remainder of what may very well have been his last words if the look in John Watson's eyes was any kind of foreshadowing.

John lifted the brunette on top of him off of his dick, deposited the squealing woman on the bed beside him, leapt out of bed, and shoved Sherlock back into the hallway with one well placed heel-palm to his solar plexus. “Stay out!” he thundered before slamming the door in his flatmate's gasping face.

Sherlock leaned against the wall until he could breathe again, then smirked and made his way back down to the sitting room where he picked up his violin and started playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” over and over again until he heard John thumping down the stairs after the brunette. 

“Look, I'm really sorry,” she was saying, “but this is just a bit bonkers, yeah?”

“Yeah, I am so so sorry,” John said with a sigh, “I'll call you?”

“Yeah sure,” she said in that tone John had come to know meant she would neither answer nor return his calls.

After he'd closed the front door behind her, he leaned his head against it and shut his eyes. The bloody music had stopped the moment the door closed. John dragged himself up to the sitting room but didn't trust himself to actually enter it, so he just stood in the doorway. Sherlock sat in his chair reading a book like nothing had happened.

“I'm going to kill you,” John said, “I'm actually going to kill you this time.”

“Difficult to do from the doorway, and your Browning is in the kitchen,” Sherlock said dismissively, not looking up from the book, flipping a page even.

“I'm sorry, was my having _sex_ disturbing your reading? I'll try to be more _considerate_ next time.” 

“Hmm, yes, see that you do.” 

Sherlock flipped another page, and that just about did it for John. He stalked across the room, snatched the book out of Sherlock's hands, and threw it in the fire. “Sherlock!” he yelled “What the fuck?”

Sherlock calmly placed his now empty hands on the arms of his chair. “Don't curse, John, it's so plebian.”

“I'll curse if I bloody well want to, you bastard! You can't pretend you aren't doing this on purpose! What did I ever do to you? Why don't you want me to be happy?”

Sherlock scoffed. “She wasn't going to make you happy, John.”

“You don't know that, Sherlock, and even if it's completely true it still doesn't give you the right to barge in on me while I'm. . .”

“Two children by two different men, never finished fifth form. Lives with her mother because she left her abusive ex three days ago and she can't afford rent on her own because she only works part time in a shop. Did you tell her you were a doctor? Of course you told her you're a doctor. She expected something a bit more posh when she walked in the door, but you didn't notice her disappointment. Learn to _observe_ , John! She was only interested in you because she thought you had money you don't have, and she only went ahead with the shag out of some misplaced sense of momentum. I was doing you a favor.”

“Yeah well, don't do me any more favors!” John snapped before turning sharply on his heel and heading for the door before he pummeled his flatmate's smug face into the floor. He grabbed his jacket on the way out the door and shoved his feet into his shoes without socks because he just needed to get out of there. 

As he slouched toward the pub, John wondered how long it would take before the women in London started warning each other off John Watson and his mad berk of a flatmate. Perhaps there was already a website and everything: www.cockblockedbysherlock.com. In his self pitying state, John started writing blog entries by all the women Sherlock had driven away. There was poor Karen, poor arachnophobic Karen, and Sherlock's perfectly timed experiments with the Australian huntsman spider, which has a habit of leaping out at people when startled. Sherlock later explained that it killed more people in Australia by leaping at startled drivers and causing collisions than any of the venomous spiders did by biting people. Of course, that was after Karen had finished screaming and fled from the flat in tears. Then there was Helga, and John didn't even know what Sherlock had said to her because he doesn't speak German, but apparently it was something that made her angry enough to slap John and storm out. Chrissie had fared better until Sherlock started texting her because John refused to answer his texts while on a date. She actually thought it was cute at first, but soon cute turned into “stalkerish” and she told John not to call her again. Oh, there were so so many. Yes, it was really only a matter of time before a proper warning got sent out in the papers.

John wandered into his local, glad to find it relatively uncrowded this early on a Wednesday; most people weren't quite off work. Chad was behind the bar and he took one look at John's face and poured him a double shot of whiskey.

“Again, mate?” Chad asked as John slid onto a stool at the bar. 

“Yeah,” sighed John, pretty depressed that his bartender had started to recognize a specific relationship-terminated-by-my-flatmate face. He downed the whiskey in one go, barely tasting it but enjoying the burn in his throat. “Another please,” and Chad obliged. This one John sipped at while fiddling with a coaster.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, not really, thanks though,” John smiled thinly at him and Chad took the hint and wandered off to leave John to his thoughts.

John didn't get to think his lonely thoughts for long, because someone slid onto the stool beside him and John only had to smell the posh hair product to recognize his flatmate. He groaned. “Oh god, Sherlock, go away. You've done enough damage for one evening.”

“I came here to tell you something,” Sherlock said, folding his coat on the stool beside him.

“You couldn't send a text?”

“I do want you to be happy,” Sherlock said.

“Coulda fooled me,” John muttered, taking another sip of his whiskey.

“No, just listen! I've had an idea.”

“Oh god,” John groaned again, “please go away.”

“No I will not. I am tired of you alternatively moping and bringing home totally unsuitable women and then moping again when they inevitably disappoint. I have a solution if you'll let me. . .”

“No. No. Nope. No. Go home, Sherlock.”

“Oh for Christs sake, John, you have no idea what will make you happy!”

“And you do?” John finally looked at Sherlock. He had that gleam in his eyes that said the game was on. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “of course. I've spent years now observing you. Selecting an appropriate relationship partner for you will be child's play.”

John coughed as whiskey went up his nose. “You want to play matchmaker?”

“It's still a respected profession in many cultures. It seems like you could use one.”

“I could use a flatmate who didn't sabotage every relationship I attempt,” John snapped.

“Oh John,” Sherlock scoffed, “none of those women was worthy of you, and furthermore, none of them were what you need.”

“Some of them were quite nice, really.”

“Dull,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know that's a terrible sin to you, but I don't mind so much, and I like nice.”

“You do mind, and you do not need somebody nice, you need somebody fierce, that you don't have to pussyfoot around like she is made of broken glass. You need someone independent, pragmatic, to counter your tendency toward codependency and sentiment. And seeing as I am your best friend, you need someone who at the very least tolerates my idiosyncrasies and the nature of our work.”

“Well,” John put his head in his hands, “I'm going to be alone forever then.”

“Oh no, my friend, Sherlock Holmes is on the case now!”

“Oh god, you're serious. Today is just one disaster after another. Go home, Sherlock, please.”  
“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, wheedling now, “let me at least try?”

John started to say no again, but then changed his mind. “Alright, do you care to make it a wager?”

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. He did love a challenge. “Terms?”

“I don't like the idea of giving you unlimited rights to meddle in my love life, so we limit the scope to one night, tonight. You get three chances to pull for me, and then we're done. If you don't find the love of my life in that time, you leave it alone and let me handle it from now on. No more sabotage and interference.”

Sherlock frowned. “That's hardly fair. You've had three decades to make a mess of your love life, and I only get one night?”

“Trust me, Sherlock, you've made more of a mess of my love life in a year than I have in all my three decades. That's the deal you get. Take it or leave it.”

A harrumph. “Fine. Deal. Come on then!” Sherlock hopped off the stool and started putting his coat back on.

“What? Where are we going exactly?”

“Well, we need milk. I thought we'd pop 'round to the supermarket.”

“Milk?” John was confused.

“Yes, you know, the cold white stuff you like in your tea.”

“Yes I know what milk is, but I thought you were going to. . .” John shrugged, not quite ready to end that sentence with “find me a girlfriend.”

“The supermarket is one of the most common gathering places after work hours, John. That's where we will find the most diverse cross section of potential candidates at this time of day.”

“Ah. Of course.” John chuckled. This was going to be brilliant. Sherlock Holmes trying to pull in the supermarket? That might almost make up for the _coitus interruptus_. He slid a tenner onto to the bar and followed Sherlock out the door into the warm spring afternoon. Well fuck a duck, he was actually smiling. Why couldn't he ever stay mad at that man?


	2. The Supermarket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turns out to be not bad at this wingman thing, if a bit dramatic about it.

“You should tell me now if you have any preferences I might not know about,” Sherlock said as they walked briskly toward the supermarket, “Thirteen out of the thirty-six women you've brought back to the flat have been gingers, which is significantly higher than their incidence in the general population so I might deduce you have a slight preference, though differently complexioned caucasian women make up all but one of the rest. Is that a conscious preference or the remnants of cultural indoctrination?”

John blinked. Did Sherlock Holmes just ask him if he was racist? Was he? “Er. . .um. . .” god, how did he answer that?

“Oh Nevermind,” said Sherlock, “let's just agree that you have a preference for caucasian women, and especially for gingers, but wouldn't rule anyone out on the basis of complexion. Your statistically abberant sample is probably also based on your learned association patterns which, as doctors go, tend to be less inclusive in the UK. More importantly, you like your women a tad on the thicker side, but not so much so that you can't lift and maneuver them easily. Height doesn't seem to matter to you but university education usually does, which narrows the selection pool considerably. Fortunately you don't seem to mind dating women with children from previous marriages, which helps at your age.”

“Hey,” said John, “I'm not that old! And I've never dated anyone with children.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes you are and yes you have.”

John knew better than to argue with Sherlock's deductions, so instead he just flipped him off and Sherlock grinned. John jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and sulked until they got to the supermarket. 

Inside the whooshing doors, Sherlock grabbed a basket and handed it back to John to carry. He headed for the produce section and John obediently followed, idly wondering if he was going to get banned from the supermarket today for whatever Sherlock had in mind. For the time being, however, Sherlock seemed content to pretend he was selecting lemons as his eyes roamed over everything female that walked in the doors. 

After about ten minutes John tapped him on the arm. “Er, Sherlock, we should probably move on. People are going to start to wonder if you've got a lemon fetish.” Sherlock was absentmindedly caressing the lemon in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the bumpy peel.

“Don't be ridiculous, John, selecting the perfect piece of fruit takes time,” Sherlock winked, pleased with his double meaning. 

John sighed. “I'm going to go get the shopping before you do something to get us kicked out.”

“Yes, fine,” something had caught his eye and he wasn't paying attention, so John wandered off in the vague direction of milk.

When he returned to the produce section he found Sherlock standing in front of the herbs having an animated conversation with a pleasingly attractive red head. Sherlock's hand flopped all over the place like a proper ponce and he was saying “oooohhhh girl you simply must try it! Cilantro will change everything in your curry!”

John had to turn around and slip around the endcap to laugh. He got a few strange looks from other customers passing by until he composed himself enough to walk back around the corner and head toward his crazy flatmate, who was, apparently, now going on about the proper way to prepare naan without a grill. 

“Oh, John, John! Come here I simply must introduce you to my new friend!” 

“Um, hello,” John said, holding out his hand to the redhead, “I'm John.”

“Hello,” her smile was careful, but not disingenuous, “I'm Anne. Are you his boyfriend then?”

“Oh no no,” Sherlock placed the back of one palm on his forehead dramatically, “Alas, John is straighter than James Bond in a gaggle of harem girls! We're just flatmates, though he could change his mind about that any day.” Sherlock blew him a kiss. _Sherlock_ blew him a kiss. What the hell was he doing?

“Have you seen the most recent film?” Anne asked, “Turns out James Bond isn't entirely straight ofter all.”

She likes Bond films? Hell, maybe Sherlock had done good after all. “It's true,” he said to Sherlock, “you should have paid more attention when I made you watch it.”

For just a moment, the normal Sherlock was back and he rolled his eyes, clearly saying, _don't waste my time with your trivia_ , but he just as quickly fell back into character. “Oh reeeeallly? I must admit I wouldn't mind a little more Daniel Craig in our club.” Somehow, goddamn him, he made his eyes sparkle lasciviously at them both.

“Sherlock,” John said in his _please behave_ voice.

“Oh fine, yes mummy I'll behave. I think Anne has inspired me. I'm going to make a curry tonight. Here, give me that!” Sherlock snatched the basket containing nothing but milk, tea, and eggs and sashayed, bloody sashayed, off to the other side of the produce section, leaving him and Anne alone.

John wasn't shy, but he did feel awkward trying to flirt in the supermarket. He ran one hand nervously across the back of his neck. “Um, sorry about him,” he said to Anne, “he's. . .um. . .”

“Chatting me up so he could ambush you with a setup? Does he do this often?” Anne smiled again and this time it reached her eyes. Her accent was a bit posh, and she obviously had a brain.

John laughed nervously, and answered honestly, “No, actually, this is the first time.”

“Well,” Anne winked at him, and it was eerily similar to Sherlock's wink, “you're an attractive bloke, so you might as well help me finish my shopping and tell me about yourself.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock was waiting for John on a bench outside the supermarket. John followed Anne out and helped her put her bags in her car, a small black prius. Sherlock saw them both pull out their mobiles to exchange numbers and he smiled. After exchanging a few more undoubtedly boring pleasantries that Sherlock was glad he didn't have to hear, John bid her goodbye and trotted back to the sidewalk and Sherlock on the bench. He sat down next to Sherlock, on the edge of the bench. Sherlock waited.

“Brilliant,” John said, finally, “just brilliant. A world traveling particle physicist who likes James Bond and dogs, has a wicked sense of humor, and is red headed and gorgeous? Sherlock, _how_? I mean in the supermarket, of all places, _how_?” 

“I take it you got on, then?”

“Yes, quite.”  
“Then why didn't you ask her to dinner or whatever boring things people do for a first date?”

“I did,” John said, “but she's seeing a film tonight with her girlfriends. We exchanged numbers and I'll call her tomorrow.”

Sherlock smirked. “She'll call you first.”

John nodded, blushing a bit, “That would be alright.”

“Yes, I thought you might like your women a little forward. Shall we carry this all back to the flat?” Sherlock gestured at a pile of bags beside him.

“Right,” John stood up and grabbed a handful of bags. “Did you actually buy ingredients to make a curry?” John's eyes widened, “Can you even cook? And what was that ridiculous play acting in there? What if things work out with Anne? Are you going to pretend to be a fairy every time she is over?”

“Don't be daft, she saw right through my ruse, as I intended her to. Although, if you like I could affect a lithp from now on. Would that be thuffithient?”

John chuckled. “I'd like to see how long you could maintain that, and also Lestrade's face when you bring it to a crime scene. 'Who moved thith coprth? Anderthon, how could you be tho thtupid?'”

John was not as good at lisping gayly as Sherlock, but it was still funny and Sherlock laughed. “I can keep it up for weeks. It drives Mycroft completely round the twist.”

John chuckled.

“So, am I forgiven?” Sherlock asked.

John glared at him. “I can't seem to stay angry at you, you bastard, so yes, you are forgiven, but if you ever barge in on me having sex again I will not be held responsible for the sorry state of your corpse, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” said Sherlock, with a smile.


End file.
